


hit me baby one more time

by Springsteen



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Springsteen/pseuds/Springsteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The facts were these: Eric Bittle owned a pie shop, Jack Zimmermann played professional hockey, and an early morning encounter had slightly painful and entirely unforeseen consequences. (This is not a pushing daisies au, but there is an adorable tiny blonde character, a tall awkward dark-haired character, and a bakery.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hit me baby one more time

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure I got this idea from one of those au posts, but I can't find that post anywhere, so now I'm not entirely sure. There is no serious violence in this fic, but there is a minor incident that is repeatedly brought up through the story. Title is from the Britney Spears song, characters are from the amazing webcomic [Check, Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/) by Ngozi. Work is unbeta'd; all mistakes are mine.

In hindsight, Bitty might have overreacted.

He was used to waking up early in the morning - he’d spent most of his childhood figure skating and played hockey in college, and he still woke up before dawn ready to go to the rink. It was easy for him to get to his pie shop early every day, to start rolling out crusts and baking the first batch before the sun rose. He missed being active, missed those mornings spent at the rink. Now that he had his own business, he didn’t really have the time, and he hated that. Instead, he’d started running through the park near his apartment. It wasn’t the same, but it made him feel a little better, eased some ache in his chest that skating had always filled. 

Providence wasn’t really a big city. Eric felt safe, most days, on his early morning runs through the park. On this particular morning in early autumn, in the dark chill of predawn light, Eric couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following him. He turned down the volume on this week’s running playlist and glanced over his shoulder, picking up the pace when he saw a dark figure behind him. _It’s fine_ , he thought. Probably a coincidence. Lots of people went for a jog at four in the morning, just like him. Totally normal. In fact, he was sure he has seen other people jogging through the park. It was a pretty big park, though, with lots of paths crisscrossing the whole thing, and no one had ever followed him before.

He rounded a curve in the path and glanced behind him again. The guy following him was tall and solid, big shoulders and long legs that meant he was gaining on Eric. His hood was pulled up, obscuring his face in the early morning darkness. Eric kicked into high gear. His apartment building was a couple blocks from the park and he was a pretty fast runner, but there was no way he could outrun this guy. 

“Hey!” The guy called, from what sounded like a couple yards behind him. Startled, Eric stumbled, giving the guy the opportunity to close the distance between them. A hand landed on Eric’s shoulder and he turned around. His mama may have raised him to be polite, but Coach taught him to defend himself. _“Now, Junior, I don’t want to hear about you gettin’ in no fights,” Coach had said, a few days before Eric started high school, “but every man needs to know how to throw a punch.”_

He planted his feet and curled his hand into a fist, swinging while he still had the element of surprise. His fist hit the guy’s jaw and the momentum of his swing spun him. He took off running, not looking back and trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his fingers. Sure, he’d spent every day of the past few years rolling out pie crust, but he wasn’t really that strong. As he walked up the steps to his apartment, the adrenaline began to wear off and his whole hand ached, sore through his wrist and up his arm. He hopped in the shower and hoped he’d have time to ice his hand before he opened the shop.

A few hours later, Eric flipped the switch on the coffeemaker, starting the third pot of coffee that day. The early rush had come and gone, and now there were only a few regulars in the shop, eating pie and reading the newspaper in the mid-morning sun. He rested his hand on a dishrag full of ice cubes and looked out at his restaurant, wondering if he should offer Sal another slice. Peach was Sal’s favorite, but Eric had only made one peach pie today and he didn’t want to sell out of it so early in the day. A flash of movement on the sidewalk caught his attention. For a few seconds he watched couple of guys walk down the street before recognition washed over him and -- _oh, Lord have mercy._

Eric hurled himself into the kitchen just as the bell rang over the front door. “Lardo,” he hissed, pressing himself against the wall to stay out of sight of the small window in the door. “Lardo, I need you to go take care of those customers.”

She frowned at him and slowed the stand mixer to a stop. Cream sloshed in the bowl, still a few minutes away from being whipped and fluffy. “I’m coming back for an explanation,” she said, brushing her hands off on her apron as she walked out of the kitchen. Eric nodded fiercely and mouthed ‘thank you’ at her back. He pressed his hands over his face. One of the guys who had just walked into Eric’s pie shop was tall, with broad shoulders and a fresh bruise on his jaw. He hadn’t recognized him that morning when he’d punched him, but now Eric knew exactly who he was.

He had punched Jack Zimmermann in the face.

Jack Zimmermann, center forward of the Providence Falconers and possessor of one of the best hockey butts in the NHL. Eric had heard he’d moved to the neighborhood a few months ago, and Chris swore he saw him in the deli around the corner once, but Eric had forgotten about all of that, until now. With a jolt, Eric remembered that Jack had walked into the shop, was probably now standing on the other side of the counter where Eric had been a few minutes ago. He pressed himself against the door, crouching below the window and breathing as quietly as he could, trying to listen. Fortunately, he didn’t pick the music in the shop that morning - Lardo had turned on some quiet piano music when she’d come in for her shift. Over the music, he could just barely hear their conversation.

“So, are you gonna tell me what happened to your face? That can’t be from practice,” a voice asked. Eric figured it must be a friend of Jack’s.

“It’s a long story.” Eric had only seen him for a few seconds, but if he wasn’t sure before, there was no mistaking that accent. It was the same voice he’d heard in post-game interviews and the occasional sponsorship. Eric shrank down even more, blushing and very thankful no one could see him. Lord, what was happening with his life.

“Well, I don’t have class for another three hours, that should be plenty of time for you to explain.”

“Here you go,” Lardo said, her voice accompanied by the clink of plates against the counter. “One apple cinnamon and one cherry à la mode.”

“Thank you very much,” Jack’s friend said. It was quiet for a few seconds, and then, “Holy shit this is so good, god damn I have missed this place. Jack, why are you not here all the time? Like every fucking day, honestly.”

Eric frowned, trying to remember what Jack’s friend looked like, and whether or not he’d seen him before, but Easy As Pie was a popular place and he’d been so distracted by Jack, he barely even registered the other guy at all. He missed Jack’s response but heard his friend laugh and say, “Just bring the nutritionist here, no one can be mad when they’re eating this pie. No. One.”

A squeak against the linoleum floor was the only warning Eric got, giving him a second to scramble away from the door and avoid getting hit in the face. Lardo walked into the kitchen, pressing a hand against her mouth to keep herself from laughing at the sight of Eric pressed into the corner.

“Do you know who that is?” He asked quietly.

She frowned. “You don’t know who Jack Zimmermann is?”

“Of course I know who Jack Zimmermann is!” Eric yelped, forgetting to keep his voice down. He winced and said, “I meant the guy who’s with him. He said he missed this place.”

Lardo shook her head. “I was hoping you’d know.” Eric had hired Lardo almost a year ago. She’d walked into the shop and jokingly offered to paint it, and once he’d learned she had just moved to Providence, Eric offered her pie and a part-time job and a promise that she could paint whatever she wanted. Now the walls were a warm shade of coral, one of them covered in chalkboard paint to accommodate his ever-changing menu, and a mobile Lardo made from beach glass hung above one of the tables. “Crazy mustache, great hair,” she said. “I’ll offer them coffee, see if I can get a name.” She smirked at Eric. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that explanation.”

As Lardo pushed open the kitchen door, laughter floated through it. “Oh, you beautiful fool,” Jack’s friend said. “You really should’ve seen that coming. That is the worst fucking plan I’ve ever fucking heard.”

Jack mumbled something in response, too quiet for Eric to hear. 

“You boys want anything else?” Lardo interrupted. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Sure, I’ll have a coffee,” Jack’s friend said. “Something’s gotta keep me awake enough to teach thirty uninterested freshmen about gender stereotypes and heteronormativity in modern western culture. No cream, extra sugar, please.”

“Oh, um, black coffee, please,” Jack said.

“Woo, Zimmermann, don’t go too crazy now.”

“Can you keep it down, Shitty?”

“There are like six people in this place,” he said in a quieter tone, “and I’ll bet Grandpa over there has no idea who you are.”

Eric frowned. _Shitty_? He couldn’t have heard that right. But now that he thought about it, he vaguely remembered a guy matching Lardo’s description coming in a few times last fall, complaining about his first semester at grad school. _“Not that it’s not a great opportunity, I know I’m totally privileged and I really do love learning and also furthering the education of others but like, academia is a world of some cutthroat shit, you know? Maybe I should’ve taken a couple years off, figure out my own shit first.” He’d grinned up at Eric over a slice of triple berry pie. “This is great - really the fuckin’ tits, honestly, best pie I’ve had in - well, probably ever. Do you have any ice cream?”_

“Alright, here are your coffees,” Lardo said. “If you guys need anything else, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

This time, Eric had a bit more time to scramble away from the door. He poured the half-whipped cream into a clean container and put the mixing bowl and whisk in the freezer, hoping that’ll be enough to save the whipped cream. 

“Okay,” Lardo said, pulling out a stool tucked under the central work table and sitting down. “Spill.”

“Not where they can hear us,” he said hesitantly, still hovering near the door.

She frowned at him. “Eric Bittle, I know your mother didn’t raise you to eavesdrop on people.”

Eric crossed to the sink and pointed at Lardo. “Don’t bring my mama into this,” he said, washing his hands. He ignored Lardo’s glare as he crossed to the fridge and took out some of the dough he’d made earlier that morning. Lardo sprinkled the counter with flour and Eric tipped the dough out of the plastic wrap and into the flour. He reached for the rolling pin Lardo held out to him, but she yanked it out of his reach before he could take it.

“Come on, Bits,” she said. “Not that I don’t appreciate the excuse to talk to a hockey legend and his friend, but I know there’s a story here.”

“I punched Jack Zimmermann in the face this morning,” he blurted, instantly cringing. Lardo let out a surprised, delighted laugh as she gently pushed Eric aside and started rolling out the dough. “I usually go for a run before I open up the shop, and this morning this guy was following me through the park and, I don’t know, I was really creeped out by it, and - oh, Lord, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He set an empty pie tin next to the neat circle of dough Lardo had rolled. “He tapped me on the shoulder and I just… freaked out. And then I ran away. My hand still hurts.”

Lardo stopped working and looked over at him, smiling sadly. “Oh, Bitty,” she said. She brushed off her hands on her apron and kissed his temple. “He’s got a great bruise on his jaw, you must have one hell of an arm.”

Eric groaned, mortified. “Oh, my - _Lardo_!” He clutched her arm. “I’ve ruined Jack Zimmermann’s perfect, beautiful face.”

“It’s just a bruise, Bitty, it’ll heal,” she said, gently shrugging out of his grip. “It’s not like you broke his nose.”

“His friend has been here before,” he continued, ignoring Lardo’s logic and edging towards hysteria. “What if _Jack_ comes back now? What if he recognizes me? What if he tries to hit me!” 

“Bitty, calm down,” Lardo said, rubbing between his shoulderblades. “Calm down, it’s gonna be fine. He’s a professional hockey player, he’s probably on some insane pro-athlete-approved diet to maintain that godly physique. Besides, no one in their right mind would try and hit you.” She grabbed his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I’m gonna go give them their checks, and you’re gonna blind-bake that pie crust.”

Eric took a deep breath and smiled at her. “What would I do without you?”

“Well,” she said, “For starters, you would’ve had a conversation with Jack Zimmermann today.” Eric flicked a pinch of flour at her back as she left the kitchen. This time, he didn’t even think about hiding behind the door to listen to their conversation. Instead, he turned on the radio in the kitchen and went back to his pie crust, dancing around the kitchen and singing along. “I shake it off, I shake it off!”

*

Despite what Eric now thought of as The Incident, he kept up his routine of going for a jog every morning before he opened up Easy As Pie. He’d never even suspected anyone of following him since that morning, nor had he seen anyone who looking even vaguely like Jack Zimmermann. Not that he was disappointed about that, or anything. Now that he knew it was Jack Zimmermann, Eric couldn’t stop thinking about him, and the fact that he must live somewhere in the neighborhood; that he probably ran most mornings, too; that Eric had probably seen him countless times in this park and never knew. 

It didn’t matter, Eric thought as he pulled a pie from the oven one day. He’d probably die of embarrassment if he ever met Jack Zimmermann, anyway. He walked through the kitchen door and out to the counter carrying the pie, still hot from the oven. At the counter sat a familiar guy, long hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail at the back of his neck.

“What is that,” he asked, quietly stunned and staring intently at the pie Eric held.

“Blueberry crumble, straight out the oven,” he answered. “It still needs to cool, but you can have a slice in a minute.”

“God bless your beautiful soul, tiny baker,” he said. His gaze moved from the pie to Eric’s face, and he stared just a moment longer than normal. “Do I know you?”

“If you’ve ever been here before, probably,” Eric said, setting the pie on a wire cooling rack on the counter. “I’m Eric Bittle, this is my shop.” He took off the oven mitts he’d been wearing and added, “Some people call me Bitty.”

“Shitty Knight,” the guy introduced himself, thrusting his hand across the counter for Eric to shake. Eric shook his hand and tried not to stare. This was Jack Zimmermann’s friend - had to be. How many guys in Providence went by ‘Shitty’? “I have been here before, and I wouldn’t mind staying forever.” Eric blushed. He had owned this shop for almost two years, he’d been baking since he was tall enough to see over the counter, and he still wasn’t used to people’s compliments.

“Can I get you anything while you wait for your pie?” He asked instead.

Shitty shrugged. “Coffee, please,” he said. “No cream, extra sugar. Pour one for yourself, too, if you’re not busy.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Shitty Knight,” Eric said. “Say one nice thing about me and think you own the place.”

“Whoa, not what I meant,” Shitty said, leaning over the counter to look at Eric as he poured two mugs of coffee. “I noticed that your shop is - for whatever insane reason - very empty, and was inviting you to have a pleasant conversation with yours truly.”

Eric placed the two mugs on the counter, his own with a hearty splash of cream, and grabbed a server to cut the pie. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he said, sliding a plate in front of Shitty, “I guess I’ll stick around.” He watched as Shitty took a bite of pie, closed his eyes, and smiled blissfully. “It’s a new recipe,” Eric said. “Do you think it’s alright? Or does the crumble need more brown sugar?”

“I think I’ll need more data samples to have an accurate estimation,” Shitty said, eyeing the rest of the pie. “I also think it’s fucking delicious, and you’re a goddamn gift to this city.”

Eric sipped his coffee. “Thanks,” he said.

Shitty pointed at him with his fork. “So, tell me about yourself, Eric Bittle. Where you from? Because it’s obviously not Providence. What made you decide to open the best pie shop this city has ever seen? If you touch someone who’s recently died, can you resurrect them?” He held out his fork like a microphone for a second before digging into his slice of pie. Eric giggled at his last question.

“Well, I’m from Georgia,” Eric started. “I moved up here to go to school, and then I just stayed in the area. I’ve always loved to bake, so I started working in bakeries to pay for school, and then I realized I would rather own my own place than do anything else, so that’s what I did. And if you didn’t notice, this ain’t the Pie Hole. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m from New England,” he said, drumming his fingers against the empty plate and looking hopefully at the rest of the blueberry crumble. Eric rolled his eyes, took the plate and served up another slice. “Went to undergrad in Massachusetts, now I’m here getting my fucking PhD, because I thought that would be a good idea.” He took a huge bite of the second slice and said, “Any hobbies other than baking? Sailing? Crochet? Photography? Jogging? Boxing?”

His speech became increasingly jumbled as he ate, but Eric still understood and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I was a figure skater, when I was little,” he said. “And then I played hockey in college.”

“Same, bro!” Shitty exclaimed, slamming a hand on the counter. “What a coincidence!” He shoved more pie into his mouth and looked at Eric consideringly. “A figure skater before, huh? You must be pretty quick.”

“Fastest skater on my team all four years,” Eric said, distracted by the large group of people who’d just walked into the shop. “Excuse me.” He walked to the other end of the counter and took orders, smiled sweetly and sent the group off to a cluster of tables under Lardo’s mobile. By the time he had served them (two slices lemon meringue, one slice pecan, one slice chocolate chiffon and three slices of the blueberry crumble), Shitty had finished his second slice and drained his mug of coffee.

“How much do I owe you for the best goddamn pie in New England?”

Eric tapped out the purchases on the cash register. “Ten dollars and sixty-two cents, no extra charge for my charming conversation.”

“You’re too sweet, you majestic motherfucker,” Shitty said, sliding cash out of his wallet and leaving it on counter. “It was great to meet you, Eric Bittle. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” He winked as he got up, and the bell over the front door chimed sweetly as he left. Eric stared. He’s had stranger customers, that’s for sure, but Shitty was now firmly on that list. He’d have to fill Lardo in when she came in for her shift tomorrow.

* *

“Mission: reconnaissance, fucking success!” Shitty shouted as he walked into Jack’s apartment that evening carrying take-out from their favorite Thai place.

“What,” Jack said, looking at Shitty from over the back of the couch. “Shits, what are you talking about?”

Shitty dropped the bags on the coffee table and went to Jack’s kitchen to get forks and plates. “I’m talking about a certain blond baker a certain bro of mine may or may not talk about, like, constantly.” He walked back from the kitchen carrying plates, forks, and two glasses of water, all of which he set on the coffee table with the food as he sat down next to Jack. 

“Shitty, you didn’t,” Jack groaned. 

“No, I did not have to pick up delicious take-out for you, you’re right,” he said, helping himself. “I did have some delicious pie earlier, though, is what I did.”

Jack closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch. “Pas tout le temps,” he mumbled.

“Mon petit élan, you know I still don’t speak French.” He took what was either his third or fourth spring roll from the package. “You should probably eat something before I finish all this.”

Stealing a couple of spring rolls before Shitty could eat them, he frowned. “Did you just call me your little moose?” he asked. “In Quebec we call them ‘orignals’.” 

“Just when I thought I was starting to speak Canadian,” Shitty sighed. “Don’t you want to know what I learned about the cutest baker in Providence?" Rather than directly answer the question, Jack started piling pad thai onto his plate and eating it as quickly as he could. “Oh, I see how it is,” Shitty said, settling back into the couch and grabbing the remote. “How’s the preseason going? Do you want me to tell you about my classes? I still haven’t decided on my thesis yet, but I mean, I’ve got like three fuckin’ years to write the damn thing. And I thought my senior thesis of undergrad was gonna kill me, but I did it and now I’m gonna fuckin’ do it again, gonna write two hundred fucking pages on… well, I mean, I can write about the duality of queerness and homophobia of sports again, but I think Doctor Bryce would call me on that bullshit in, like, ten seconds. They always want you to write on new topics, but then when you try to change your thesis it’s all ‘are you sure you can support that claim’ and ‘the field is so full of papers on this, maybe think about pursuing something else’.” Shitty stole a piece of chicken from Jack’s plate and said, “Your bruise is looking better. Or worse, but, like, healing - more yellow, less purple.” and that’s probably what pushed him over the edge.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Tell me?”

Shitty smiled at him, and rather than say anything about how this would be good for Jack, about how Jack would be happier once he learned to just ask for the things he wanted, and Shitty was his best friend so of course he wanted him to be happy, to have what he wanted, whatever that was. He never said any of this outright, but he hoped Jack was getting the message through his thick Canadian skull. 

“His name is Eric Bittle,” Shitty said, “but people call him _Bitty_! He’s originally from Georgia, but he moved up here to go to school.” Jack stared at him like he wanted to write this down. Shitty pulled his leg up onto the couch and turned to face Jack. “He grew up figure skating, and then he started playing hockey in college.” He could practically see Jack’s brain implode. It was a little bit pathetic, but mostly adorable. Shitty promptly moved both of their plates to the table and threw his arms around Jack, clinging. “If you don’t ask him out, I will, because he bakes a fuckin’ amazing pie. Many of them, every day of his precious life.”

“He punched me in the face,” Jack said quietly.

“You don’t know that for sure,” Shitty said, “though it is pretty fuckin’ likely. He also did it because you approached him in the fuckin’ creepiest way possible. At night. Alone. In a park. _Bro_.”

“I know it was a terrible idea,” Jack said. “I just… I couldn’t think of anything better.”

“Shh,” Shitty said, petting the back of Jack’s head. “You made a mistake, but we’re gonna fix it, and everything is gonna be great.”

“You can’t know that for-”

“We’re gonna show the world that something good can work and it can work for yoooooooou, and you know that it will,” Shitty wailed, drowning out Jack’s protests. Shitty stopped singing and eventually, Jack’s arms curled around him. “Honestly, bro,” Shitty said, “just go talk to him. But not at four in the morning.” They stayed like that for a long time, Jack wrapped up in Shitty’s arms, ESPN muted in the background.

“Thanks, Shitty,” Jack said, breaking the silence. 

“Any time,” Shitty responded, “but you know I’m not letting go yet.”

Jack huffed, his breath ruffling Shitty’s hair. He barely managed to reach the remote on the coffee table and switched to the history channel, which was playing a show about the gladiators. It wasn’t Jack’s favorite era, but he let the remote fall to the floor and tried to shift Shitty off his leg before it went completely numb. He never told Shitty, but his friendship - the octopus hugs, the dinners in his apartment, the ‘reconnaissance missions’ - meant more than Jack knew how to say. Instead, he curled closer to Shitty and focused on the history of the Colosseum. 

* *

He didn’t want to jinx anything, but Eric’s life was pretty great. He actually had the time to update his baking vlog, he got a super cute new haircut, and Easy As Pie was more successful than ever. A reporter had written a glowing review in the _Providence Herald_ , and, even better, his favorite baking blog, Sprinkles and Spice, actually asked _him_ for one of his recipes. Last week, he’d gone to Lardo’s gallery opening, and soon it would be pumpkin spice latte season. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about accidentally punching Jack Zimmermann in the face, or about the weird conversations he’d had in the few days that had followed - it was just that so many other good things had happened, he wasn’t thinking about it anymore.

Eric was in the kitchen, measuring flour for a new chocolate pastry dough he wanted to try. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before, and it would be delicious with triple berry filling. Or maybe chocolate mousse, though that might be _too_ rich. Definitely worth trying with the cherry filling, too, and that recipe he saw the other day for a caramel tart. A couple of his regulars would definitely be willing to try that - Justin, currently working through the clinicals in med school, would eat any pie Eric put in front of him and ask if there was more.

Once he’d measured out the flour, he carefully sifted it into a bowl. The motion caused some of the flour to float up into the air, tickling Eric’s nose. He scratched it with the back of his hand, trying not to sneeze as he set aside the sifter and picked up the cocoa powder. Just as he was about to measure it, something in the dining room crashed to the floor. Eric sighed. He’d really hoped Chris had grown beyond his disaster period. He was the sweetest boy, but Eric hadn’t been able to leave him alone in the kitchen for his first two weeks. Eric was still reluctant to let him use the coffee maker. 

He set down the bag of cocoa powder and walked through the kitchen door just in time to hear Chris reverently exclaim, “Oh, my god, you’re Jack Zimmermann!” 

It was a good thing Eric had left the cocoa powder in the kitchen, because he definitely would’ve spilled it all over the floor, along with whatever Chris had dropped. Instead, Eric squeaked in surprise and thought about turning around and hiding in the kitchen, but Chris spun to face him, hands over his mouth. “Oh, Bitty, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I broke another plate.” He scrambled for a broom, leaning against the wall behind Eric, but turned again and said, “Jack Zimmermann is here! In our restaurant! Or, well, I guess it’s your restaurant - Bitty, Jack Zimmerman is in Easy As Pie!” 

“I can see that,” Eric said faintly. He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. He was happy to see there were no bruises on Jack’s face; he was pretty as ever. It had been weeks; Jack probably didn’t remember, and even if he did, it was dark. There’s no way he could know that it had been Eric who hit him. Anyway, his mama raised him to be polite, and that’s exactly what he was going to do. “Hi, welcome to Easy As Pie. What would you like?”

“Oh, uh, hi,” Jack said, like he was surprised Eric was talking to him. Lord, his eyes were terribly blue, the kind Eric just wanted to get lost in - but he was a professional, and he would absolutely not scare Jack Zimmermann out of this pie shop. “The last time I was here, you had a really great apple pie.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Eric said. Jack stared at him, and Eric stared back. He wasn’t sure if there had been a question in that statement, or if Jack was just making a comment. 

“Do you still have it?” Jack finally asked.

“Well, not the _same_ pie,” Eric teased, “but I can definitely get you a slice of apple pie.”

“You’ve been here before?” Chris asked excitedly. “Wait, do you come here a lot? I just started here not that long ago!”

“Chris,” Eric said gently. “Why don’t you go over and check on the ladies by the window? It looks like they could use some more coffee.”

“Okay!” With a last look at Jack, he grabbed the coffee pot and walked over to the ladies by the window, who Eric suspected would be instantly charmed by Chris’s bright smile and bumbling enthusiasm. 

“Sorry about him,” Eric said to Jack. “He can get a little… excited.” Jack shrugged, hovering by the counter and looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Slice of apple pie, right? You want that to go or do you wanna grab a seat and stay awhile?” 

Jack sat on one of the stools at the counter and gave Eric a small smile. “I guess I’ll stay,” he said. 

Eric beamed, plating up a slice of apple pie. “You want ice cream? Or whipped cream?” 

“No, thanks,” Jack said quietly, watching Eric move around behind the counter. The whole shop wasn’t very big, and the space between the counter and the kitchen was narrow. Eric had learned to navigate the space gracefully in the years he’d owned the shop. He forgot about the plate that Chris had dropped, though, and nearly slid to the floor.

Jack stood up, leaning over the counter. Eric realized how tall Jack was, his body curved across the counter and his arm reaching to Eric like he wanted to help, to stop him from falling. He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Eric couldn’t help but notice his strong forearms. Even though he was solidly on his feet, he thought about tripping again just so he could grab Jack’s hands. Instead, he served up Jack’s apple pie with no further incident, then grabbed the broom to sweep up the shards of the broken plate. He dumped the shards into the trash can, stowed the broom away, and went back to Jack. Before he could ask about the pie, Jack spoke.

“So, this is your place?” His attention was focused on his plate even though both of his hands were still, his right hand curled around the fork.

“I don’t live here, no,” Eric said, smirking a bit. He hadn’t noticed before, but Jack’s shoulders were tight with tension and creeping up towards his ears. Maybe he should back off on the teasing, just a little. “Yes, this is my shop.” Then, though he’s not sure why, he added, “I’m Eric.”

“Jack,” he introduced himself. When he reached out to shake Eric’s hand, he dropped his fork on the counter and sent it sliding to the floor. 

Eric ignored it and shook Jack’s hand. “I know,” he said before he could stop himself. He winced and ducked down to pick up the fork, tossing it into the small bin of bussed dishes under the counter. 

“So you like hockey, eh?” Jack asked, directing to the top of Eric’s head, since he was still pretending he had any reason to be down on the floor. 

“Yeah,” Eric said, straightening up again. He fished around for another fork in the box of silverware on the counter. “I, uh, used to play in college. Once I quit figure skating - I started when I was real little, but then we moved to a new town when I was in high school and I didn’t want to try and find a new coach because honestly, nobody could replace Katya, so I joined the local co-ed hockey team and um. I miss it.” He had been gesturing with the fork through that whole speech and once he finished talking, he crossed his arms to try and stop his flailing, nearly stabbing himself in the arm. Then he realized why he was holding the fork, and that Jack still had half his pie left. As he held the fork out to Jack, their fingers brushed - just an accident, Eric told himself, though his heart was racing. He could be such a southern belle sometimes.

“The hockey or the skating?” Jack asked. Eric had said so much, he forgot what Jack was asking about. “You said you miss it.”

“Oh! Just being on the ice, really,” Eric answered. “I haven’t really have that much time, since I started running the shop.” At some point, Chris had come back to the counter and was serving a couple who had just walked in the shop. Eric could feel him glancing over every few seconds. 

“I couldn’t imagine giving it up,” Jack said after a moment. 

Eric shrugged. “I was pretty decent, but I wasn’t as good as you are. And I always liked baking more than anything, anyways.”

“I’ll bet you were good,” Jack said earnestly, looking up at him with an intensity that made Eric fidgety. “It’s all about practice, I’m sure you know that. That’s how you get better at anything. Loving what you’re doing just makes all that practice a little easier.” His gaze fell from Eric’s face to his plate and he seemed surprised to realize he still had pie left.

“Well, I’ll let you finish your pie,” Eric said. “Give me a holler if you need anything.” 

Rather than run back to the kitchen, tweet about what just happened, or text Lardo a string of emojis, Eric walked out from behind the counter and headed over to the table he’d sent Chris to check up on a few minutes ago. Easy As Pie had a lot of regulars, and Eric probably won most of them over with his delicious pie, but he had also made it a priority to chat with all of his customers, whether they were famous NHL players, local housewives, or teenagers on a date. It felt like habit at this point, to bring that southern hospitality wherever he went. He had just wrapped up a lovely chat with the ladies by the window (who were looking for a nice place to host a book club, and really, how could Eric not make that offer) and turned to check up on Jack when he crashed into something solid and lost his balance.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” Jack said. Eric looked up and realized he’d walked right into Jack, who was currently holding him gently, hands curled around his shoulders. “Not very graceful for a figure skater.”

“Former figure skater,” Eric corrected. “I’m more graceful on the ice.”

Jack smiled at him and then realized that he was still holding Eric up; that they were standing very close together; that there were other people in the shop. “Thanks for the pie,” he said, letting go of Eric and walking to the door. 

As he left, Eric couldn’t help himself. “Y’all come back now, y’hear?” 

*

He thought that would be the last time he saw Jack, but he was very wrong. Jack came back once or twice a week, sometimes alone and sometimes with Shitty. He always had apple pie, and he always talked to Eric. One day, Jack walked into Easy As Pie with an attractive older woman named George, making Eric irrationally jealous and ridiculously passive aggressive until he found out she was the team manager for the Providence Falconers. Eric wouldn’t say they were _friends_ , exactly, but it certainly felt like it, every time Jack walked in for a slice.

Summer had rolled easily into autumn, the weather getting colder every day. It was much easier to buy baking supplies in bulk, but Eric still liked to use fresh ingredients when he could. That morning, Lardo had opened up the shop so Eric could go to the farmer’s market, hoping to pick up some of the last berries of the season, along with anything else that would make a good pie.

Eric wandered slowly through the stands of fruits and vegetables, half-wishing he had a grocery cart, or at least a basket. Even a little red wagon would be helpful. But if he had to carry everything himself, that meant he couldn’t spend _that_ much money, which was probably a good thing. He had bought a lovely bunch of cherries and had just argued for a great price on four pints of raspberries, along with a few groceries for himself. One of the stands was stocked full with fresh apples from a Rhode Island orchard and Eric couldn’t tear himself away. He was wondering if he could call Chris and ask him for help carrying, oh, a bushel or two of these lovely apples back to the shop when he heard a familiar voice over his shoulder.

“Gonna try and buy the whole stand, eh?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eric said, turning to smile at Jack. He had a Providence Falconers hat pulled down low over his eyes, making them look even bluer. “I’m only gonna get a bushel, two tops.”

“How many pies is that?” Jack smirked down at him.

“About fifteen a bushel, and it’s not like I’m going to eat them all myself,” Eric said, elbowing Jack in the ribs. “The shop goes through that in a couple days at this time of year - everybody wants apple pie. At least it’s not quite the season for pumpkin pies yet, it’s so tough to keep up with the demand.” He took a few steps away from the apple stand, letting other people get closer to the booth. “Not to be rude or anything, but I’m surprised to see you here.” 

Jack crossed his arms over his chest, looking considerably more uncomfortable now that they were in the middle of a crowd. “I can cook,” he said defensively. 

“I never said you couldn’t,” Eric said. “I just meant I thought you’d be, I don’t know, busy practicing or doing press conferences or something, with the season starting so soon.”

Jack opened his mouth, but whatever he said in reply was lost to the people around them, to the vendors pushing their fruits and vegetables, the laughter and the chatter and, somewhere, a crackling radio playing latin jazz. Jack fidgeted with something in his hands and for the first time, Eric noticed the camera slung over his arm. Slowly, deliberately, Jack raised the camera and took a picture of Eric, frozen in place. He was used to being on camera - he had a vlog, obviously he was used to it - but it felt strange for someone else to be the one behind the camera, and even stranger that that person was _Jack_. “They do let us leave the rink sometimes,” Jack said finally, a small smile once more pulling at his lips. This time when he raised the camera to his face, Eric could tell it was focused over his shoulder at the line of stands stretching behind him. 

“Well,” Eric said, “Since you’re here, would you mind terribly helping me carry a basket of apples back to my shop?” He had a car, but Providence was a pretty small city and Eric preferred to walk if he wasn’t going very far. 

Jack smiled. “Sure, Bitty.”

He ended up with Jack’s camera carefully looped around his neck and several bags of produce in each hand while Jack carried the basket of apples. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Eric asked. “It’s only a couple blocks, but I know that’s heavy.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Are you okay? That’s quite a few bags you’ve got there, eh, and my camera.”

“Oh, hush.” Eric wished his hands were free just so he could take a picture of Jack like this, smiling teasingly at him, carrying a really ridiculous amount of apples back to Eric’s business because he was unendingly polite, or maybe he was terribly bored, or he saw it as extra conditioning. Every time Jack walked into Easy As Pie, a pleasant wave of surprise bubbled through Eric’s belly, and he was still a little surprised that Jack wanted to spend extra time with him. He couldn’t believe that Jack had easily given up his camera to Eric, though it was probably safer around his neck than it would be carefully balanced on top of the apples. He wondered if Jack would really mind if Eric took a picture.

“Hey, this is a nice park,” Jack said, interrupting his thoughts. “I go for a run here some mornings.”

Since he’d moved up here, Eric lived most of his life in a pretty small area of Providence. From his apartment, he could easily walk to Easy As Pie, and to the farmer’s market, and to the park he and Jack were now walking past, where both of them liked to go on morning runs, though only one of them knew that. Eric hummed a noncommittal agreement, turning over the possibilities in his mind. He didn’t have to tell Jack about that morning. If he did tell him, it would definitely change whatever this relationship was they’d built. Jack might even stop coming around for pie, and Eric would be sad, but he would live with it. Even though he wasn’t actually lying to Jack about anything, the weight of his unshared secret weighed on Eric. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything, or maybe it would, but he had spent half of his life lying about himself and it wasn’t a hill he wanted to slide down again. 

Jack had already taken a few more steps before he noticed Eric had stopped walking. He turned back as Eric took a deep breath, determined. “I’m pretty sure I punched you when I was out on a run in this park a couple weeks ago,” he said in a rush. “I didn’t mean to, obviously, but you - I just… panicked.” Jack was laughing, his quiet huffing chuckle he never heard often enough. “I really am sorry about that, by the way, but you did give me a good scare that morning.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Jack said, lowering his gaze and looking down at Eric’s shoes. “I should have--I didn’t…” He shook his head. “No hard feelings. I don’t think either of us were really awake yet.” He shifted his weight, smiling apologetically at Eric. “Do you mind if we keep walking? This is getting heavy.”

“Oh, gosh, of course not!” Eric jogged to catch up to Jack. They walked together down the block to Easy as Pie, shoulders brushing every few steps. Eric couldn’t stop smiling.

*

The day after Eric ran into Jack at the farmer’s market, he sent Lardo home early. She was working on a new series of paintings to display at the gallery after her first showing had been a success, and he knew she appreciated having the time to work on her art. He had already cleaned the kitchen and stacked the last load of dishes in the dishwasher. Now, Eric was out in the main room, sweeping the floor and dancing along to the music he’s playing through the stereo. It didn’t matter if he was using the handle of the broom like a microphone, there was no one else in the shop to see. 

“ _Cuz when you wanna smash, I just write another one. I sneezed on the beat and the beat got sick-_ aaaah!” Eric jumped and dropped the broom with a clatter. He hadn’t heard the bell chime or the door open, but Jack was standing in the shop, hands in his pockets and smiling softly at him. 

“How long have you been in here?” Eric demanded. “Can’t you tell I’m closin’ up?”

“Maybe you should lock the door, then, eh?” Jack replied. “Or at least change the ‘open’ sign.” Eric rolled his eyes and walked past Jack to flip around the sign in the window from “open” to “closed.” 

“How’s that?” Eric asked. “I think there are a coupla slices of apple in the back, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.” He didn’t move from where he stood near the door, only a few feet from Jack, who hunched his shoulders and looked down at the floor. Eric suspected this visit had nothing to do with pie, so he crossed his arms and waited for Jack to say something. Instead of saying anything, Jack crossed to Eric, leaned down, and kissed him, terribly gently and terribly briefly. Eric stood, shocked into total stillness, as Jack stepped away and ran his hands through his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That morning, I was trying to talk to you because I wanted to ask you out, and now you probably don’t want to see me ever again, so I’ll just-” He tried to edge around Eric to get to the door, but Eric finally realized what Jack had said. Eric seized Jack by the collar and dragged him down to Eric’s level, pulling him into a kiss so forcefully they bumped noses.

“Ow,” said Jack.

“Oops,” said Eric, pressing a much gentler kiss to Jack’s nose. “You don’t have to leave,” he said. “I do want to see you again-still. You were gonna ask me out, at four in the morning in an otherwise empty park?”

“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “Guess it wasn’t my best plan.” He wrapped his arms around Eric’s waist and kissed him again. Eric stretched up on his toes, pressing himself closer to Jack.

“Hold up,” Eric said, both hands still loosely crumpling the flannel of Jack’s shirt. “Have you been trying to date me this whole time? Is that why you’ve been here so much?”

Jack grinned. “Are you dating all of your regulars? I’ve seen how Agnes looks at you.” 

Eric snorted. Agnes, bless her heart, came to the bakery every Tuesday morning before she went to bingo at the senior center. “You carried forty pounds of apples for me yesterday.”

Jack shrugged, Eric’s hands following along with the movement. “Could you really have carried it yourself?” he asked between pressing kisses along Eric’s jaw.

“Rude!” Eric pulled back as far as Jack’s arms would allow and glared at him for as long as he could before a smile spread across his face. “So, were you ever gonna take me on an actual date, or were you just gonna keep offering me coffee from my own shop?”

Jack actually _blushed_. Dear lord, Eric wanted nothing more than to make that happen again, and again, and -- “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d like that,” Eric said. He pulled Jack in for another kiss, sweet and easy as pie.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! come say hi on [tumblr](http://segwins.tumblr.com).


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